To Die For
by TheSoulGiver
Summary: "We'll always be together, right?" A take on the tragic Reichenbach fall based on the Disney movie "The Lion King."
1. Chapter 1

"Look, John. Everything the light touches is plagued by crime, and evil."

Sherlock swept his arm out dramatically as they stood on the step outside their apartment and stared out at the early morning commencement of London life. The sun was just emerging from between the tightly knit buildings, casting a golden-pinkish glow over the doorsteps and unfamiliar faces.

John nodded solemnly, wondering vaguely if he was supposed to be impressed by this grand declaration.

"…Wow," he replied, glancing at Sherlock curiously from the corner of his eye.

Sherlock, apparently, wasn't quite finished with his speech yet.

"And it is our duty, John, to protect London from the worst kinds of felony and darkness."

John raised his eyebrows.

"I thought you only took the really interesting cases as a way to pass the time."

"Oh, there's more to being London's only consulting detective than getting your way all the time," Sherlock replied dismissively with a wave of his hand.

John pulled a face of mock astonishment.

"There's _more_?"

Sherlock ignored him, turning back to observe the traffic and pedestrians that inhabited Baker Street.

"Everything you see here exists together, in a delicate balance. And as a detective, one must understand that balance, and respect every kind of creature – from the Scotland Yard officer, to the common criminal, to the solitary homeless individual."

This statement most definitely perplexed John, who had been doing his best to take the words of the detective seriously.

"But, Sherlock…don't we mock the officer, arrest the criminal, and take advantage of the homeless by getting them to spy for us?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, twitching his scarf more tightly around his neck in exasperation.

"Yes, obviously, John, but let me explain – "

Sherlock's explanation was interrupted by a sudden smattering of gunshots and the wail of a police siren from the next block over. These noises sounded so out of place in the beauty of the early morning. Heads of pedestrians turned in curiosity and alarm while solitary pigeons took flight in an attempt to escape the danger of the commotion.

With a grand shout of laughter, Sherlock was leaping off their front step and running down the sidewalk, hastily dodging passersby and scattering the lingering birds in his path. John trailed obediently behind the detective, a grin emerging on his face, towards the inevitable and alluring call of danger and adventure, despite the fact that he was never to hear the rest of the truth behind the great circle of London city life.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: This chapter goes out to my solitary story follower. You know who you are ;)**

* * *

On the dark streets of the city, one could clearly observe the silhouettes of two individuals, one noticeably taller than the other. The taller was shrouded in a long coat, his lengthy and unruly curls contrasting sharply with the lighter, cropped hair of his smaller companion.

After ten hours of what seemed to be nonstop running and no food, Sherlock had finally solved the case and had Lestrade arrest the proper criminals. All John wanted was to return to the flat and have a nice cup of tea, and perhaps order some takeout, but seeing as neither of them had any cash on them, John and Sherlock were forced to walk the twisting mile back to Baker Street.

Fortunately, the weather was comfortable and dry, although the temperature of the air dropped noticeably as the time approached 11 pm.

John eventually plucked up the courage to break the comfortable silence that had fallen between them as they walked side by side.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

John cleared his throat softly.

"We're…friends, right?"

Sherlock laughed unexpectedly. John was one of the few people lucky enough to get to hear Sherlock Holmes' genuine laugh, and that low, rumbling chuckle was enough to lift John's spirits any day.

John joined in laughing, and he shifted closer to Sherlock's side as they walked.

Sherlock beamed over at John, silver eyes twinkling not unlike the stars that peppered the midnight sky above them as he replied softly.

"Right."

John knew he should leave it at that; Sherlock had been more open with his emotions that past week after the incident at the pool with Moriarty than any other time since John had moved in, and it would be unfair of John to ask him for anything more. But…John needed to ask, he just had to.

"And…we'll always be together, right?"

Sherlock was silent for a few moments, and it was then plain that he wasn't going to answer. John didn't mind; the fact that Sherlock was still standing next to him was far more than enough.

Therefore, it surprised John when Sherlock suddenly spoke.

"The stars are beautiful tonight."

John wasn't expecting this. However, he tilted his head so he could better observe the vast array of lights splayed out above the tops of the buildings as well.

"Come on, let's get a closer look," Sherlock said with sudden excitement, before springing into action with a sudden vigor and beginning to climb up the fire escape on the nearest building.

John rolled his eyes, but smiled and followed nonetheless, like he had done nearly every single day of his life for the past year.

"Funny, though, coming from someone who doesn't even know how the solar system works," he said as he began to follow Sherlock up the creaking metal stairs to the flat roof.

"Well, that just makes it all the more mysterious, doesn't it?" Sherlock asked, emerging onto the roof with John close behind, and shoving his hands into the deep pockets of his jacket, tilting his head back and looking up at the sky. "An unsolved mystery is a beautiful thing."

"Really?" John was taken aback. "I would have thought it would annoy the hell out of you, if there's something you can't figure out."

Sherlock shrugged his thin shoulders indifferently.

"Sometimes, John, it's not my mystery to solve. It would be foolish to put my time and energy into something that's best left the way it is."

"Or into something that you'll delete two minutes later because you think it's pointless."

Sherlock laughed again, and while in reality it was merely a soft chuckle, John felt as though it had echoed across the quiet rooftops and made the air around them a little warmer.

"In some cases, yes, John, you are absolutely right."

John felt that little, irrational sense of pride that always came hand in hand with even the slightest bit of praise from the detective.

John didn't immediately realize that Sherlock was still speaking.

"…I mean, I still retain the basics – fusion occurs, Helium is produced, et cetera, et cetera. But…" Sherlock looked thoughtfully up at the sky. "Humankind – four thousands, maybe millions of years, humans have come up with theories about the stars, and they think they suddenly understand the meaning of life, while it's all really just some simple chemistry and astronomy." Sherlock shook his head, smiling fondly. "Humans are so _stupid_."

John was shuffling his feet uncomfortably. This didn't go unnoticed by Sherlock, who froze.

"Did I say something? I didn't mean that you were an idiot, John, I meant everybody else, obviously! I mean, yes, sometimes you can be a bit slow, but there's nothing wrong with that!"

"No, no, Sherlock, it's not that." John offered a weak smile. "I know I'm an idiot. It's fine."

Not bothering to rebuke John's words, Sherlock began to pace.

"So what was it, then?" he pressed. "It must have been something I said…Was it when I spoke about the irrational theories about the stars? You're not particularly religious, but as a man with very strong morals…_oh._"

Sherlock stopped pacing and turned to face John.

"John, do you place…personal sentiment in the night sky?"

John's face reddened minimally, and he hoped that Sherlock wouldn't notice under the dim light of the stars.

"It doesn't matter," he mumbled, turning away from the detective. "Anyway, we'd better go, it's getting late…"

Sherlock furrowed his brow.

"John, why won't you answer my question?" he called after him.

"Because, Sherlock," John replied, his voice raising despite himself as he turned around to face the detective, jaw clenching, "you'll just stand there blankly for a moment while I try to explain, before interjecting with some smartass comment of yours and making me feel like a total imbecile. You don't want to hear me talk. So let's just go, okay?"

John turned around again and made to start climbing down the fire escape, but before he could reach the edge of the roof, he felt a hand close around his forearm.

"John," Sherlock said, his eyes and voice both pleading in a manner that even John rarely saw. "I _do_ want to hear you talk. That's why I asked you. Will you tell me? Please?"

John took a deep breath, willing himself to remain annoyed at Sherlock, but finding it very difficult when he was widening his sparkling eyes at John like that, and using proper _manners_, for god's sake.

"Fine," he finally replied, his voice much softer now as he followed Sherlock back to the center of the roof. They stood, side by side once more, both staring up into the endless heavens. It was several moments before John spoke.

"I don't have weird theories about the stars, or anything, like those ancient cultures you were talking about," John began slowly, eyeing Sherlock nervously before continuing. "But…they always seemed, I don't know, _comforting_, somehow. I know it sounds stupid, and I don't need you to tell me that," he finished quickly.

Sherlock's gaze lowered from the sky to meet John's.

"It doesn't sound stupid," he assured John, slightly alarmed by John's hesitation. "Tell me more."

John gaped at Sherlock for a few moments before he realized that the detective was being completely serious. He didn't think that Sherlock ever cared about his opinion, let alone his personal feelings about the _stars_,of all things.

"Alright," John said hesitantly, dragging his gaze back up to the sky and clearing his throat. "Well, like I said, I've always found the stars comforting, even as a little kid. My sister and I would always go and lie out in the backyard and watch them for hours, finding the constellations and whatnot. But even though the stars were always moving, and were always in a different place, there was a certain amount of predictability. You would always be able to find the right star, even if you had to wait for a while.

"Looking up into the sky always made me feel so small, but not in a bad way. I suppose I knew that I would always be overshadowed, but I still got to be a part of things in the universe, in my own way. And the stars don't know I'm there, but I know that they'll always be there, no matter what, and that's enough to make me feel better, if something's been bothering me.

"The stars are distant, and beautiful, and so difficult to understand, but I suppose none of that really matters, because their presence is enough to make me feel calmed, I suppose."

John realized his gaze had shifted over to Sherlock at some point during the explanation, and he was held in awe by the way the starlight seemed to reflect off of his pale skin, creating gentle shadows under his cheekbones. John cleared his throat awkwardly, shifting his eyes to the concrete roof under his feet, awaiting the snarky comment that he knew was sure to come.

But probably the very last thing that John Watson expected to hear at that moment was –

"That was beautiful."

And John knew that his mouth must have fallen open, but he was too transfixed by the strange sense of awe that seemed to glow in Sherlock's silver eyes as he regarded John.

When John finally managed to close his mouth, he cleared his throat again, looking down at his feet before looking back up at Sherlock. He meant to mumble out a _Thanks_ or possibly an astounded _Really?_

But what came out of John Watson's mouth instead was a timid, "I thought you didn't care about beauty?"

Something in Sherlock's eyes seemed to change, but John couldn't put his finger on it. Then, so quietly John thought he might have imagined it, Sherlock murmured, "I care."

But then Sherlock had turned and was looking back up at the sky almost deliberately, and John thought he detected a faint trace of embarrassment on Sherlock's features. But no, that couldn't be right. Sherlock Holmes was incapable of embarrassment.

"Thank you for telling me that, John," Sherlock said more loudly, sneaking a glance over at John. "It…means a lot."

This time, a surprised "Really?" found its way out of John's mouth.

A grin pulled at the corner of Sherlock's mouth.

"It was fantastic."

"You know you do that out loud?"

And for the third time that night, John's hearty laugh and Sherlock's baritone rumble melded together in the cold night air and in the clouds of their breath, echoing across the flat rooftops of London and travelling up towards the stars.


	3. Chapter 3

"Now, you wait here. Sherlock has a _marvelous_ surprise for you."

John furrowed his eyebrows suspiciously.

"What is it?"

Mycroft had asked John to come to his office – Actually, no, he hadn't asked. Mycroft had simply sent a car to pull up beside John as he was walking out of the doctor's office where he worked. "Anthea" wouldn't tell him anything, naturally, so John was just as baffled after being shown to Mycroft's office as he was when he was faced with the large, shiny, foreboding black car outside his office.

In fact, if it were possible, John was even more confused now than he was before, because he thought he heard Mycroft say that Sherlock has a _surprise_ for him. Sherlock abhorred surprises; he simply didn't see the purpose. Of course, that didn't stop him from leaving shocking messes on the kitchen table or dragging John out the door without warning, but those certainly didn't count as proper surprises in John's eyes.

Mycroft laughed unpleasantly, causing John to blow out a puff of air in exasperation.

"Come off it, Mycroft. Just tell me."

Mycroft's face twisted into a smile that more closely resembled a sneer.

"No-no-no-no-no-no-no, this is just for you and your detective. You know, a sort of…_flat-mate_ thing."

John glared at Mycroft, obviously not amused in the slightest.

This only caused Mycroft's "grin" to widen as he stared at John with his small, dark beads of eyes.

"Well, then, I suppose I'd better go get him," Mycroft stated abruptly, before turning to leave.

"I'll go with you!" John called after him, hastening to catch up with Mycroft and trying to follow him through the door.

"No!" Mycroft snapped. He had halted in the doorway and turned to face John, face twisted and eyes livid. His face relaxed a moment later as he regained his composure. Mycroft chuckled quietly, twirling his umbrella smoothly in his hand.

"No," Mycroft said more quietly but firmly to John. "Just stay in this room. You wouldn't want to end up in another mess like you did at the pool, would you?"

John's head snapped up.

"You _know_ about that?"

Mycroft shook his head, that sickly sneer spreading across his face again.

"John, _everybody_ knows about that."

John's mouth dropped open slightly. How did anybody else find out about that? John hadn't written the details of the finale of that case on his blog after it ended eight days previously, and Sherlock had sworn to secrecy on the matter.

"R-really?" John croaked, hating himself for the way his voice shot up half an octave. He cleared his throat.

This didn't go unnoticed by Mycroft, whose smugness seemed to inflate, if possible.

"Oh, yes. Lucky Sherlock was there to save you, eh?"

Clearly enjoying himself, Mycroft leaned closer to John, still not touching him. John could feel Mycroft's hot breath on the side of his neck and immediately began to feel nauseous.

"Oh…And just between us, you may want to work on those deduction skills of yours. Hmm?"

And then Mycroft was gone.

John lifted his head sharply just in time to see the tip of Mycroft's umbrella disappearing through the doorway.

"Mycroft!"

Mycroft paused in the doorway, before poking his head back through the door to regard John with a raised eyebrow.

John sighed.

"Mycroft, am I going to like the…surprise?"

Mycroft's grin widened.

"Oh, John, it's to _die _for."

And with that, John was left facing an empty room.

John sat down nervously in the leather armchair in front of the huge mahogany desk that dominated the large office. Mycroft always made John feel so…uneasy. The grand and foreboding atmosphere certainly wasn't helping his nerves. He drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair.

Mycroft's words were still echoing around in his head.

_Oh, John, it's to _die_ for…_

_And just between us, you may want to work on those deduction skills of yours…_

John shook his head sharply to get Mycroft's horrible taunting voice out of his head. Were his observation skills really that dreadful? John knew he was no Sherlock Holmes, for instance, but he still resented being picked on by his flat-mate's older brother for it.

John glanced around the spacious office. There wasn't much here to observe, really. The room was quite clean; the desk was free of any papers or clutter, the dark wood floor was uncovered by rugs or carpets, and the only book visible in the room was an ancient-looking Oxford dictionary. A light layer of dust seemed to coat everything in the room. It obviously wasn't Mycroft's usual office; no, it was far too bitter and unused.

He drew his attention to the door, which was mahogany, like the desk. The impeccable brass doorknob was unmarred by scratches. John noticed with some surprise that Mycroft had left the door open a few inches. That seemed rather unlike Mycroft, especially after his insistence that John stay in the room and wait for their return.

Upon glancing at the grandfather clock in the corner, John realized that he had been waiting for Mycroft to return for nearly twenty minutes. He was just popping off down the hall to fetch Sherlock, wasn't he?

John pushed back the idea that something had gone wrong; more likely, Mycroft had gotten roped into some international crisis, or Sherlock had gotten bored and run off to a crime scene, and Mycroft had to go fetch him.

John pushed himself up out of the leather armchair with a sigh and a groan, stretching his arms and his bad shoulder before hesitantly approaching the large mahogany door that had fallen open ever so slightly on its hinges.

"Mycroft?" he called uncertainly, pulling the door open a few more inches. It swung silently, without any audible creak or scrape. "Sherlock, are you there?"

All of the other doors in the hallway were shut tightly, and knowing Mycroft, probably locked as well. John considered trying a few of them, but decided against it. He wasn't keen on walking into a room of posh aristocratic politicians or getting dragged off by the brawny security team.

"Mycroft?" he called again, his voice sounding small in the hallway of the grand building. "I'll wait five more minutes for the bloody surprise, alright? Then I'm leaving."

John's proposition was met with further silence, which John took as an affirmative. Shaking his head exasperatedly, he turned around and made to push open the door to the office when something large and heavy hit him on the back of the head.

The office door disappeared along with the hallway behind a black curtain that forced itself over John's vision, quickly obscuring his consciousness as well and leaving John alone in the dark. So very, very, alone in the dark.


	4. Chapter 4

Mycroft Holmes had always been cleverer than his little brother.

Ever since they were very young, this fact was apparent to the eldest Holmes son. Sherlock was eager and impulsive, while Mycroft had the clear patience and perception to have true influence.

Mycroft always preferred to control from the background, while Sherlock was always in the middle of the action – This was quite foolish, Mycroft criticized him; that made it nearly impossible for Sherlock to observe everything and see what was important. But Sherlock was easily bored, and that was one of his greatest weaknesses.

Mycroft had never seen his little brother dearest as much of a threat; until recently, that is. Mycroft set up a test for Sherlock, just a simple analysis to keep some tabs on his little brother. After Sherlock had proved his capabilities when Lestrade called him for assistance in the case referred to as "A Study in Pink," Mycroft easily tracked down the mastermind behind the plot – James Moriarty. He used Moriarty as his pawn, introducing a character who could appear as a potential opponent to his arrogant brother, someone who Sherlock would think worthy to be his nemesis. If only he knew how easily Mycroft could _crush_ him…

The results of this little test, finishing with the ordeal at the swimming pool, had been quite surprising for Mycroft – Sherlock was far cleverer than Mycroft anticipated, but it was nothing the eldest Holmes couldn't handle. Everything had gone to plan. Mycroft never intended to _kill_ Sherlock, but he easily could have, just with one word…

However, this test had one unintended result that was very pleasing for Mycroft – he now knew his little brother's weakness. And John Hamish Watson was _such_ an easy target.

Sherlock had never trusted Mycroft, but he never had any reason to suspect his older brother for being involved in anything remotely criminal or sinister. But now, little Sherlock was growing cleverer, growing dangerous, and Mycroft had no intention of letting his little brother dearest meddle in his affairs, which some people may not find…honorable. And potential threats must be eliminated immediately; Mycroft knew this only too well.

Pity it had to be his little brother.


	5. Chapter 5

John was dragged back to consciousness with what seemed to be painstaking slowness. The first thing he became aware of was that his head hurt. A lot. Then came the dull ache of his wrists and ankles. It was several moments before John could identify the cold, solid surface he was sitting on and that was pressing into his back as some sort of metal.

It was clear he was somewhere outside; the cool breeze brushed past his closed eyelids, and he could hear the distant bustle of London traffic, but it all sounded strangely muted, as if separated by a pane of glass.

When John finally summoned up the courage to blink open his eyes, he jumped slightly in shock, causing his wrists and ankles to throb painfully. He was sitting on what seemed to be an old fire escape on the side of a decrepit brick building, his throbbing wrists and ankles explained by the rope that bound them to the rusting metal of the railing. The aging metal seemed to sag precariously under his weight every time he shifted.

John took a few deep breaths, tilting his head up and gulping in lungfuls of the cold, fresh air. It was particularly chilly that night, and it came to no surprise of John's when he realised he couldn't feel his fingers, as a result of the temperature and rope wrapped tightly around his limbs.

It was late evening, John estimated by the look of the sky. He had been unconscious all afternoon. _I hope I don't have a concussion,_ John thought as pain shot through the back of his skull again, _Although I'd have to suppose it's very likely._

John noticed the faint glimmerings of the first stars poking their way out of the grey cover of the London sky. He hated to admit it, but this calmed him slightly.

John's stomach dropped as he felt the rickety fire escape abruptly scrape downwards another inch against the bricks. It wouldn't last much longer, doubtless; it was barely connected to the crumbling building anymore, and John seemed to be near the roof...It would be quite a long fall to the ground.

John drew in a deep breath and continued to look up at the sky, to the shimmering stars that continued to emerge as the sky became gradually darker. He accepted his fate – He hadn't stayed in the office when Mycroft told him to, and now he was paying the price. Was it Moriarty again? John didn't know, didn't care, but just wanted to end this horrible suspense (he gritted his teeth as the fire escape sagged further with a perilous creak). If he was going to die, just let him _die_ already…

Unless…

But no, John couldn't rely on Sherlock to save him every time. Sherlock probably didn't even care enough to realise that John had been missing all afternoon, but Mycroft would have been sure to say something.

John shook his head, wincing when pain shot across the back of his skull. No, he was truly alone this time…

He heard his name, barely a whisper on the wind: _John._ John stared up at the glittering stars; was this how it was going to end? Him, helpless, alone, with only the wind to mourn his passing?

He heard it again, a little louder this time. "_John!_"

Was that truly the wind? Or was it…No, John refused to get his hopes up. He was doomed to die alone here; why would that change?

"_John, are you alright?"_

Hearing things. Just hearing things.

"_John, I'm coming to help you. Don't move, alright?"_

And suddenly, the fire escape dipped precariously under the weight of another body, creaking in protest as something, or _someone_, made their way up the side of the building.

Could John really be imagining this? He accepted the fact that he could be imagining the deep, familiar baritone, but this? The definite weight of another person pulling themselves up the collapsing twisted metal on the side of these crumbling bricks? And the frenzied head of black curls framing ivory cheekbones and two glimmering, silver stars?

"Sherlock," John breathed, his throat dry and gravelly. Sherlock was here, really here, and he was going to save him, and then they were going to go back home and John would make tea, and they would laugh about their adventures and order take-out, and maybe John could convince Sherlock to actually eat something for once, because he hasn't eaten since Tuesday…

"John," Sherlock whispered, his bright eyes sparking when they met John's. "Hold on, I'm nearly there, John…"

Sherlock pulled himself up, landing lightly and almost cat-like on the rickety metal beside John. He felt it swaying dangerously under the weight of two fully grown men.

John barely noticed that Sherlock was untying the knots at his wrists and ankles, as he was so heavily focused on his eyes – The two bright focus points that kept him from being pulled under to unconsciousness by the dull ache in his head.

Sherlock seemed to notice this. He spoke quickly but firmly.

"John, you've got to stay with me, alright? Stay conscious. We're going to get out of here, but I need your help. Please."

Although Sherlock spoke firmly, John could have sworn he saw something pleading behind Sherlock's shimmering eyes.

Sherlock must have gotten the knots untied, because he helped John stand up. The movement caused the rotting metal to drop away from the bricks a few more inches, and the two men lurched, almost plummeting over the railing and falling to the pavement below.

"Sherlock, what – " John began, but Sherlock cut him off with a tug on his arm.

"John, we've got to climb up here where it's stable, we haven't got much time…"

Sherlock began helping John lift himself onto a metal grate that was about as high as his chin, but his spinning head and numb hands were making it difficult.

The moment Sherlock lifted John's legs up over the edge, the broken fire escape dropped with a sickening groan, and John saw Sherlock's shocked face plunge downward before he could even react.

"SHERLOCK!" John yelled, clambering over the side, hoping and praying, but still half expecting to see his friend's crumpled body crushed under the metal remains of the fire escape as they crashed to the ground with a deafening clanging…

But Sherlock was there, hanging on with his fingertips to the bottom rung of a rusting ladder on the side of the building, legs swinging precariously far above the metal ruins.

"Sherlock…oh thank god…thank god…" John breathed, clutching onto the railing of the sturdier metal platform he was sitting on to keep upright. Sherlock was too far away to swing over to John's platform, but he could probably reach the roof with little trouble. Sherlock seemed to have noticed this as well, because he began climbing.

"Just hold on, John, alright? Hold on…" he called as he reached for the rungs over his head.

John watched carefully, his breath catching in his chest whenever Sherlock's fingers slipped on the crumbling bricks, but he never fell. The detective was nearly to the top when he reached for the final rung, and John was almost relieved enough to breathe normally. But without warning, the ladder began to slip away from the wall, the bolts that held it to the bricks falling away completely.

Faster than John thought was possible, Sherlock's pale hand shot out and grabbed the gutter that ran along the roof, and he hung there, preparing to pull himself up onto the building.

John thought he might have passed out. Once he found his voice, he yelled, "Get down here already, you bloody bastard, before I die of a heart attack watching!"

John could hear Sherlock's low chuckle, and a barely perceptible mutter of, "Now _there's_ my John."

John could see Sherlock's wiry arm's flexing, straining to drag himself onto the roof, but suddenly, something stopped him. Sherlock was back to clutching on with his fingertips, every passing second potentially his last.

"Sherlock!" John tried yelling again, and it emerged as a sort of hoarse croak. But Sherlock didn't hear him; he seemed distracted by something on the roof that John couldn't see. There was a large metal box, probably an electrical station of some sort, that was preventing John from seeing anything on that side of the roof. What John could see, however, was the sudden and uncharacteristic terror in Sherlock's eyes. But Sherlock was going to make it up there, he _had _to make it, he _had _to, for John…

"Sherlock," John whispered one more time, and he saw Sherlock's iridescent gaze flick over to John, one final time. _The_ final time.

Sherlock seemed to have been thrown backwards by some force invisible to John. Before John could so much as move, Sherlock was falling, no, _flying_ (no one could fall so gracefully, absolutely no one), his long black coat billowing around his thin frame as he seemed to hang, suspended in midair, pale skin of his hands and face glowing in the starlight and black curls framing his face almost elegantly.

Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the moment ended. And John was left, alone, to stare at the most horrible, the most heartbreaking sight he had ever laid eyes upon. It couldn't be real. Nothing could be that dreadful, nothing. It must be a mistake, a ghastly mistake. And John had to get to Sherlock.


	6. Chapter 6

It was a wonder John managed to reach the alleyway below without falling. His hands were shaking and the long-forgotten pain in his leg had returned as he descended the rickety ladder on the other side of the fire escape, but John didn't even notice the shooting pains in his shoulder through the daze he was in. All of his senses seemed to be consumed with only one thought, one word that ran through his head, leaving no room for anything else.

_Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock._

He finally dropped to the ground, stumbling slightly on a long piece of metal from the collapsed fire escape that was lying off to the side, a gloomy monument.

And there, at the foot of the building, was a dark, crumpled figure.

_Sherlock_, John's brain said automatically, but it couldn't be. This figure was too broken, too weak, too _lifeless _to be his best friend.

John staggered over, dropping to his knees beside the body. He reached down and touched the thick, dark fabric that shrouded him. Yes. He knew that fabric, only too well, from the all the times of fetching his flat-mate's coat for him when he was too distracted to remember, from reaching into the pockets to fetch his phone for him, from grasping the sleeve while running in an attempt to keep up, so he would never be lost…

John shuddered at this onslaught of memories, and pushed them back down. No. Not important. Not relevant. Sherlock would be fine, there would be plenty more of these moments in the future for the doctor and his detective.

John tenderly reached for the flurry of soft, dark coils of hair that adorned the head, and ran a few strands between his fingers. Yes, this was familiar; John remembered touching these locks while checking Sherlock for a concussion on many an occasion, running his fingers along the temple with a gentle doctor's touch.

But now it was all wrong; the strands were still soft, but now sticky, and when John pulled his hand away he saw traces of red on his fingertips.

John's touch, though careful, had caused the figure to shift slightly, and its head fell backwards enough to reveal a pale complexion. The sharp features were soft, much too gentle in sleep. It was wrong, all wrong, and John had no other choice but to curl up and cry.

John lowered himself down onto the grimy bricks of the alley, not caring about the chill that stabbed its way through his thin jacket or the jagged pieces of metal that pierced the sleeve of his jacket.

The tears flowing freely down his face now, John grasped Sherlock's lifeless arm and pulled it over his shoulder, the warmth of the thick jacket rendered meaningless in contrast with the cold that seemed to radiate from the motionless form.

John huddled closer, nevertheless, not caring because it was wrong, all wrong, and Sherlock wouldn't wake up and fix everything and he was alone again, all alone in the dark.

John didn't hear Mycroft approaching, but he was suddenly standing right over the doctor, his shadow long and thin and dark in the weird grey and yellow light of the alley as it stretched over the forms of the John and the detective.

"John…_What have you done?"_

John clutched Sherlock's limp arm more tightly to his chest, shaking uncontrollably, trying to block out Mycroft's voice, anything to make everything else stop, to make this horror disappear...

"I was kidnapped, and – and I woke up here, and he tried to save me…it was an accident, I…I didn't mean for it to happen…"

Mycroft coaxed John out from Sherlock's lifeless embrace, pulling the doctor to his feet on the uneven and broken concrete. His voice was smooth, but his eyes were oddly distant.

"Of course you didn't. No one ever _means_ for these things to happen. But Sherlock _is_ dead. And if it weren't for you, he would still be alive."

Mycroft's words pressed on John's chest, constricting his lungs and making it nearly impossible to gasp in lungfuls of air.

John stared at Mycroft's umbrella, watching it twirling and dancing, reflected in the small puddles on the dirty ground, anything to avoid looking at the motionless form of the detective beside him.

John drew in a deep shuddering breath, forcing himself to speak, to sound strong, even though he was breaking inside.

"What am I going to do?"

"Run away, John."

John's head snapped up and he finally met Mycroft's cool gaze with his bleary one.

"_Run."_

John inadvertently stumbled back a step, nearly tripping on something that felt horribly like a cold, dead hand that he refused to think about, anything but that.

"Run away, and never return."

John staggered one more step backwards under the weight of Mycroft's glare, before turning and sprinting blindly in the opposite direction, away from Mycroft, away from Sherlock, away from everything he had messed up in his life.

Mycroft stood in the grimy alley, twiddling his umbrella with his left hand with his right hand buried deep in his trouser pocket. He appraised the scene calmly, watching as John would stumble over bumps in the pavement or bits of rubbish, before picking himself back up again and running, simply running, turning random corners, trying to lose himself in the depths of the city.

Two men appeared on the roof above Mycroft Holmes, staring down at the tall man as if waiting patiently for instructions. One was shorter with slick black hair, and dressed in an impeccable dark Westwood suit. The other was incredibly tall and muscular, with a strong jaw and cropped blonde hair. His clothing was a dark khaki, and difficult to distinguish from the dusty grey colour of the roof in the darkness. He held a massive gun positioned on his shoulder, but it didn't seem to bother him or look out of place in the slightest, as if it were a part of him.

Mycroft didn't acknowledge their presence, but the three of them simply stood and watched the struggling and broken John Watson escaping through the winding streets; the crumpled body of Sherlock Holmes lay forgotten at the elder brother's feet, the body that had so recently belonged to the brother that Mycroft had heartlessly thrown off of the building's rooftop.

The sky above them was black and starless.

Mycroft continued to twirl his black umbrella. Apart from that, he remained motionless, simply watching as John began to grow slowly smaller in the distance, staggering through dark and broken alleyways.

Then, Mycroft suddenly spoke, and although he spoke calmly, his cold voice cut harshly through the cool night air to reach the men on the rooftop.

"Kill him."


End file.
